Page 81 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
He’s balancing four plates, and just as he reaches to hand them to us a toddler at the next table breaks free and slams into his legs.
The plates launch through the air in multiple arcs, most of them landing on the ground, until one lands directly in my lap, covering my carefully chosen sundress in cream sauce and what appears to be an entire crab’s worth of meat.
The table falls silent except for the gentle lapping of water against the dock. The server looks mortified. I look down at my lap, now decorated with dinner, and feel hysterical laughter building in my chest.
“Oh goodness,” Amber breathes. “Michelle, I’m so sorry, let me get some napkins?—”
“It’s fine,” I manage, though I can feel cream sauce soaking through the fabric. “Really, it’s?—”
“It’s not fine.” Grayson’s chair scrapes back, and suddenly he’s beside me, his presence commanding enough to make nearby diners politely avert their eyes. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
“I can handle?—”
“Stand up,” he says, voice dropping to that gravelly register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to more primitive parts of my anatomy. “Slowly.”
When I rise, cream sauce immediately begins dripping from my dress onto the deck, and I feel heat flood my cheeks at the obvious disaster zone I’ve become. Without hesitation, Graysonshrugs out of his button-down shirt, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that molds to every sculpted line of his chest and shoulders.
The sight of him half-undressed and moving with protective purpose makes my pulse spike for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, stepping behind me so his chest nearly brushes my back. “Face the water.”
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out breathier than intended as his hands settle on my shoulders.
“Creating a distraction.” His breath tickles my ear as he drapes his shirt over my arm like a waiter’s towel. “While you clean the worst of it off your dress, I’m going to be standing very close behind you, blocking everyone’s view and looking completely besotted.”
“Looking besotted?” I manage, though my brain short-circuits when his thumb traces the nape of my neck.
“Won’t be much of a stretch,” he says, voice rough with something that sounds dangerously like barely leashed hunger. “Now get the chunks off your dress while I stand here being your human shield. And try not to think about how much I want to kiss that spot right behind your ear.”
The casual confession nearly makes my knees buckle. “Grayson?—”
“Focus, sweetheart.” His hands rest lightly on my waist, steadying me while the server appears with an armful of napkins and profuse apologies. “Though for the record, watching you handle a crisis with this much grace is doing dangerous things to my already questionable self-control.”
I accept the napkins with as much dignity as I can muster, dabbing at the cream sauce coating my dress. The silk fabric darkens with moisture as I work, and what started as an elegant sundress rapidly transforms into something that clings to every curve with inappropriate transparency.
“This isn’t working,” I mutter, acutely aware that wet silk reveals far more than I intended to share with the entire Back Porch Restaurant. “I look like I entered a wet t-shirt contest.”
Grayson’s sharp intake of breath behind me suggests he’s reached the same conclusion, though his reaction seems less focused on the problem and more on the... scenic aspects of the situation.
“Michelle.” His voice drops to a register that bypasses rational thought and heads straight for more primitive neural pathways. “We need to get you covered. Now.”
The barely leashed hunger in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. This is about more than gentlemanly concern—this is a man fighting every instinct to claim what he wants while surrounded by witnesses and social expectations.
“Take my shirt,” he says, already reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.
“Grayson, no—” I start, but he’s already pulling the white cotton over his head in one fluid motion that should be illegal in seventeen states.
Sweet mercy.
If I thought the button-down reveal was devastating, watching Grayson Reed strip to bare skin in the golden light of an Outer Banks sunset might actually require medical intervention. Every muscle in his chest and shoulders seems carved by a person with both artistic vision and a dangerous understanding of female psychology.
“Put it on,” he commands, voice rough enough to strip paint. “Like a dress.”
My brain short-circuits as I stare at his chest, at the way evening light plays across skin that looks like it tastes as good as it appears. “I can’t—people will see?—”
“People will see exactly what I want them to see,” he says with quiet authority, stepping closer until I can feel heat radiating from his bare skin. “A man taking care of his woman.”
His woman. The possessive claim sends liquid fire racing through my veins.
